Poetry is a great consolation for all the ways you fail to be present.
— Eileen Myles
Did I not have a dream of horses and document. The document was very full indeed, if you can standardise what a document should look like in full. Its no print zone. The document started to lag, by dint of its size. I was flitting between offices with my hands like noons that smelled of yesterdays. The positive rage of all this. Collapse on the library floor while freshers fly staples through the air in click & spring and if I tried to type it was only to make the time faster. But faster only to go backwards, in a kind of MSP political-orgiastics ‘Yes’ sort of way by rewind. In the thrift shop, bearing my huge pink book to the counter, ignoring the diamond earrings. “Who?”
& a wound in the name for a tree. Trochee. Freely moving
glitch & clasp.
The document bloated with calyxes of unquotable glass. We are usually green, but lately the politics abused us to violet. Perianth refracting the thing that most excites, the lightning. If a bolt struck the whorl of a flower. They die in graves of obscurity, loamy soil for the paparazzi.
Remember we drank a non-trademarked cola. I hid beneath a canopy of photographs.
No, I will write this simply instead. September is a series of concentric air bubbles, each of them gleaming rainbow mutual. A series of unanswered emails, illnesses, unreadable entries in one of several notebooks. If a leave flows, the oak will shiver. There were a lot of books! The books were in towers, guarded by long blonde hair and wine. The air smelled of plimsolls. I slumbered dearly on the train, reading of clouds. Remember when clouds were a feature of sky. In the aftermath, there will always be tinsel. Books will cost what albums used to.
Bubbles he would drown without, sonic, and how I went anyway, breathably pink.
I was surprised at the glass that came out of me, sequined at the disco. I slammed the fridge door to spite the silent conservatory. Men came to be sweet with numbers and glasses of milk, the wrong glass type for the glass I needed. For I had been bleeding, heavily, from my perch. They smelled the blood across the bar, they always do. Swerve across lights to find me. Listen to hip hop, softcore; implore, implore.
Off to Jupiter, via the lily pads. I phoned citizens advice to protect my weekends.
What if instead they brought me coffee? Many times this month in the Pret on Lothian Road, nursing a 99p filter, shaking my skin of the rain. This liquid has excellent shadows. My palette changed like the colour of coral. I was being bleached, as though salt were coursing through my veins. So ho[a]rse, the coarseness.
At the end of the world, was there blog posts?
Once more, with chicory.
Who could remember the first deception? It was a hothouse flower, swaying in the programmed breeze with a smile. Stupid hothouse flower. You won’t grow taller than me.
I am the horse from a Dorothea Lasky poem, ‘black smoke’ and ‘the squeaky noise at night’. Mostly paper and things that “start”.
I am a failure for having never tried a Girl Scout cookie. Adult tastes are savoury. If you recall, my data pertained mostly to alarms for marmalade, pills and scree. We spread it all upon the rocks. I was thinking about Sophie Robinson and ‘fucking up on the rocks’ and a drunk sensation beyond me, like sewing your skin to the air and having it pulled so tight by the breeze. Whose breeze is it forever. Wordsworths I believed before. Grave trip. That photo of the pop punk hero in a hospital bed with a bloated liver, my phone cracked of shame and screen, eyelashes curled in the sheets with your curls of hair. A cereal.
You pop one bubble, you give into the next. All of my glitzy messages, failing. A water lettuce of vitreous finish, salvaged with salt. We dined upon tips from a haircut. I was so thirsty.
“What matters is the passion alone, and your polo neck.”
The man that was named after myrrh and water. I stood in front of the hundreds, played licking at carpets to catch the box. What if you won and you’d reconstruct it, rip by rip, to make a home. And we lived in that like sulphites, crying.
All of my friends, erasing tattoos.
A week of walking.
Walk the week
Walk the week
The pace of her voice fitted my walk and I saw that Lock 27 was open. The colour of lager in springborn hangover; the back of my throat. Kept walking for the sake of the cloudless sky. Craving rainbows, sugar, arcadia. A harvest moon glowed as I made my way home, listening to Titanic Rising as nameless birds made their roost inside me.
There was a launch, the end of a diary, a new kind of wildness.
I stop my breath at the stop. At Wembury Beach, I go barefoot in the sun-warmed pools. Silver gelatine in lieu of a sky. The world pictures us back, I feel pinholed & nearly a cinder. What do we mean when we talk of aries. The track marks of cormorants were a font. Sticky toffee aporias of sense, a sugary endlessness. Plymouth.
Train take me east, where the time goes slower. We can hear the waves from the wall again.
We can hear the waves from the wall again. And the horses, horses. Horses come out of the sea. So many white horses, ‘and the ground shook I got this feeling so strong for the first time ever, then I just put my eyes down on my knees and covered my ears’ (Alan Warner, Morvern Callar).
I woke up to ‘Carry Me, Ohio’ and the soundless canal with the slender girl, swallowing whisky from a watering can. Things slid down my cheeks. In the border of drunken plants, we thinned in hormonal resilience. From the dream-gig returning with postcards. Imagine return to implore, say over. Press that lovely Enter.
“One of us is a mushroom.”
What Rachel has to say about roads.
I had the new books and the covers; the poem felt like a cover I was singing it so much I forgot the truth. Do you have the time, a laminate silk.
I was so tired I could hardly lift my eyes to roll.
She screamed the city through my ears for me.
Trolling in the pleistocene, trolling waters. They triggered my sorrows set to fleek.
My phone died in the south side I was wandering around at some pace. The exhibition opened out into shimmer and light, in dramas of beauty and violence. Not violent beauty. Not violent. Kept saying it as the ornaments turned. Art. Art. Art is a finishing. I felt cliché in the gardens afterwards, sipping chardonnay alone, reading Mary Ruefle:
There are poets who are resigned to not being able to save the world, who barely have enough time to catch up with themselves and the attendant mystery of their fear and being.
(Madness, Rack and Honey)
Once again, twice over the text. A hardening gold. School girls shrieked in their uniforms, throwing rocks at each other. Their mothers drank wine like me, but talked. The air started to simmer as the shadows came over and I realised too early that it was no longer summer, despite the heat; the mind crisped at its fringes with golden exhaustion. I got sick. I climbed into a lighthouse / It was a very bright house. The light over the sea was gold and also.
Type slowly, time is stained.
New clouds fill the lines, like something extraneous from the hand of Klee. Shaky coke. Vegan bakery caper / The Archers. Narrative is this luxurious telling from the ethnographers’ disco. I put down my reflexes one by one for an earnest thought. He broke a glass. A surprise encounter. I drank until the bubbles soothed my burning throat. A toast to books
Between thick slices of books. The brain. Splayed on Marmorie Paper. Someone I loved had a house and filled it with spiders, drawing silver all over the rooms in complex geometries; the house was teeming with lines and if you passed through they’d stick to you. The resultant tattoos gleamed with mercury; you could tap a needle on the line to coax a red. The little ones come out the dark, they were crawling with cries. Lasers of silk and intrigue!
I close my eyes to salt again. “Away / Shyest.”
There was no moment of ‘disembarking’ in the green-hued dream of Shetland. At the hostel I lay in the bottom bunk dreaming of ink in my veins. I peeled apples for the invalids of the moon. We colonised the office with shades of blue.
Remastered the inches of that single. His voice quicksilvered the rain. I warmed.
Walked around listening to Lana, blood-lilted by a Larabar. My session timed out where the space exceeded.
Did you spell the calorie correctly.
I ate until the morning came
A file name
Neil Young — After the Gold Rush
Sun Kil Moon — Garden of Lavender
The National — Terrible Love
This Mortal Coil — Another Day
The Innocence Mission — The Lakes of Canada 2019
Lens Mozer — Cut My Heart in Two
Electrelane — Birds
Cate le Bon, Bradford Cox — Secretary
Purple Mountains — Nights That Won’t Happen
Angel Olsen — Lark
(Sandy) Alex G — In My Arms
Black Belt Eagle Scout — Soft Stud
Infinity Crush — virtual heaven
Vagabon — Water Me Down
Perfume Genius — Eye in the Wall
DIIV — Blankenship
Thee Oh Sees — Plastic Plant
The Nightblooms — One Weak Moment
Mark Hollis — Inside Looking Out